


Tra-La-La Triangle

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 17:25:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5674414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I guess, Scully has a lot on her mind about the FBI gossip mill post-Triangle?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tra-La-La Triangle

So the upshot of it all is I kissed Skinner and he wasn’t expecting it. It was fun. Points go to the uninhibited Dana Scully. Of course, I didn’t realize I was capable of it. Me. Kissing the boss over nothing. Well, everything. I hope the security cameras caught it and right now, Cliff the night guy is telling the world Agent Scully went down on AD Skinner and  _she_  used altoids.

On second thought, that would hurt the AD’s career. And it was basically relief. I hope Cliff thinks I was just grateful. I mean, the Mulder/Scully sex scandal stories have been around the building so many times I think the stories have the clap. And they’re always so goddamn similar! Mulder or I walk down the hall, either smiling, looking nice, or wearing a cowboy hat. Agent Jane Smith sees us. Agent Jane rushes to see newer Agent Joan Doe.

‘Guess who just got a quickie in the basement?’

Agent Joan Doe is clueless; her partner Mary Roe is not.

‘Again? That woman (or man) is a nymphomaniac!’

Agent Joan is confused. ‘Who?’

‘The X-Files agents, Mulder and Scully. The only people I know besides President Clinton the taxpayer pays to screw on our time. Everyone knows about it. Besides the fact it _shows_ in their every move, there are times– well, they obviously were, you know? Like that time in 95 when they broke the elevator? And then there’s the whole ‘abduction’ thing in 1994.’

By the way, I really really hate this rumor. The basic story is, yes, I was abducted by Duane Barry, but somehow I escaped the trunk, took off somewhere and Mulder knew all about it. Why? This is the obscenely stupid part. I was pregnant (so goes the story), it was his kid, and we didn’t want to get busted. Anyway, Eileen Fletcher tells the best version of this story. It goes like this:

‘All right. They’d made a deal, Scully’s Catholic so no abortion, right? She’d plumped up like a doughnut, so she was about to take off for the field for a few months to take care of it. Then Duane Barry got involved. But Scully’s a trained FBI agent, I bet she knocked the shit out of him when she got her chance, ran off, and called Mulder when she was halfway to Mexico. You know he almost killed Barry. Wouldn’t you if the guy had abducted your pregnant girlfriend? So Scully just takes off, boom, Mulder sulks for three months. I don’t know how she got home in that condition– all I can guess is that she had serious guilt about giving up the kid and tried to off herself with some Mexican drugs. And when Mulder saw her like that, he realized he’s wrecked without her, and boom, they make up.’

I guess the fact that I was thirty and not fifteen at the time made no difference. But now Joan Doe can recognize Mulder/Scully afterglow. And the more I think of my reported and fully fictional sex life, the more I wished I’d asked someone– Skinner– over tonight. My poor abused vibrator will find its way out of the drawer the minute I get myself home and arranged. That poor thing. It was a thirtieth birthday present from my favorite roommate in college, May. She packaged it with a note: “It won’t ever prefer the game to you.”

May is perhaps the coolest woman alive. She’s thirty-six, bisexual, independently wealthy, and reviewing food for _Town and Country_. Despite the fact I ignore her and all my old friendships, she regularly sends me gut-busting emails and says we’ll visit the next time she’s in town. Of course we never do, but– hell, I kissed Skinner, why not dinner with May? May would understand my fucked-up life. Maybe we could have a one-night stand, one lesbian experience for my lifetime, broaden the ol’ horizons. Of course, she’d probably encourage me to go for it with Mulder instead, and that would be bad, bad, bad.

I’m skittish about Mulder. I know one day he’s going to kiss me when we’re both in full possession of our wits. The experience will not stop with a kiss. There’s no way in hell I will settle for a kiss. Uh-uh. No way. I want the whole package, and I want to tear him open like a birthday present. I want his lithe male form. I want his hands all over. I want love and a hard cock–

Hoo boy. Kissing Skinner has really sent the doors of perception flying open. This is surreal. I’m considering all these unsaid things so openly, what I want and what makes sense. I don’t really want to sleep with Mulder. There are too many issues.

For one, what if the sex is lousy?

This is not so trivial as you might think. Five years of anticipation has raised expectations. Our first time would have to be so spectacular that we will raise and sink the Titanic over again. Not gonna happen. I was never very good at giving head, for instance. And now I’m seriously out of practice. If the sex was merely good, or mediocre, there’d be disappointment and resentment. It would give us no end of difficulties.

Maybe not. Maybe the sex will shatter glass. There’s more. I am not in any mood to get married or move in together– no way. Mulder is a dirty slob. He will trash my kitchen and drink all but like, a swallow of the milk, and then put the carton back in the motherfucking refrigerator because there’s milk left. He’d beg me to sleep naked. No. We are just too middle-aged and self-absorbed to adjust. I would kick him out in a month.

It’s really a pity Mulder and I aren’t compatible. We love each other so completely. I mean, he would die, kill, maim, and vote Republican for me and vice versa. But love, even the divine, beautiful, strong love we share, is not going to change the fact Mulder sings in the shower. Off key. At the top of his lungs. Falsetto. Or the fact I occasionally dance in my underwear in the living room to showtunes. Hey, you haven’t lived until you’ve belted out Les Mis in only your black lace bra and garter belt.

He’d die. I’d die. And we’re both so lousy at just being friends. I know we have similar tastes on occasion, too. For example, we both like Monty Python and Jaime Lee Curtis slasher flicks. If we could spend an evening eating pizza, drinking wine, and watching Holy Grail, just talking, maybe then I’d sleep with him. I mean, Eddie VanBlundht got that, and it’s still only maybe.

Back to Skinner. Wow. He’s quite muscular. I found that out today. I bet he can still do one-armed pushups. More importantly, he’s not a psycho like Mulder or me. We could fool around without ending up in bed. We could go to dinner and the theatre without the danger of breaking public decency codes. My God, I can imagine the Mulder/Scully sexual experience. It would be crazy. I want him bad. Must be that time of the moon. I’ll just have to put Lil– the vibrator, I am not thinking of its ridiculous name even to myself– to use. As for Skinner, I could date him. If I date. If I had anything close to resembling a life. Even though it wouldn’t be the wild Mulder experience.

So now that I’m home, it’s time to unwind. Off with all this business suit bullshit, nylons were invented solely to make women crazy, my God. Ooh, I have half a bottle of red wine in the fridge. Nice. And I have a copy of _Interview with the Vampire_ in my VCR. Brad Pitt. Tom Cruise. Antonio Banderas. Mmm-hmm. I settle down on the couch, with a big bowl of chocolate pudding and the wine. No more thinking allowed. It’s relaxing time.

And then the doorbell rings. I pull a blanket around me, sneak to the door and open it. Of course, he’s standing there.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Can I come in?”

“Could you come back?” I reply. “I’m sorry. Tonight just isn’t a good night.”

“But I came over to see you.”

“Next time, call first.”

I close the door and lock it. So that was wrong. Oh well. I’ve done worse things. And I have the night planned. Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.


End file.
